Secret Santa
by Neuronerd
Summary: Sylar hates the holiday season, but some advice from a stranger will change that this year.


**A/N: Here's a little angsty holiday one shot to spread the cheer! **

**Secret Santa**

Sylar swayed gently as the subway came to a halt at the station. He didn't need to hold onto the straps that hung from the ceiling to keep his balance. As a longtime user of New York's public transit system, he had over time just developed a natural kinesthetic sense that kept him from falling on his face while the train car moved, freeing his hands to do whatever he liked- listen to music, read the news on his phone, or more likely, prevent pickpockets from stealing his wallet. Besides, the shiny steel poles that passengers were meant to hang onto were crawling with germs and healing ability or no, he didn't want to tempt fate.

He stepped off the train and watched the mad rush around him of people pushing and shoving their way on or off the train before the doors closed. Each was loaded with brightly colored bags and heavy overcoats to keep them warm in the cold. At the end of the platform, a scruffy looking old man wearing a Santa hat played "Silver Bells" on his saxophone. It was indeed Christmas time in the city- or at least the dreaded Black Friday after Thanksgiving. He wasn't out for any special deals on things he didn't need and he had no one to shop for. He didn't really know why he was out at all except for a vague sense of needing to be doing something at this time of year.

Sylar wasn't a Grinch, but he hated the holidays because he had no one to celebrate with. For him, it wasn't a time for gathering around a table full of food or giving gifts, it was an annual reminder that he was all alone in the world. But although his childhood memories of the holidays weren't of the perfect Norman Rockwell variety, he did remember feeling happy. There was a time when he remembered thinking that the small dinner his single mother could afford was just the best and that getting another bag of socks was a very thoughtful and practical gift. Perhaps the thing he most enjoyed was looking at the beautiful window displays of all the big department stores in Manhattan, and when he and his mother had walked the entire borough in the cold, they would end the day at Rockefeller Plaza watching people ice skate under the massive Christmas tree while they drank hot chocolate. The tradition started after his father left, but even when he was well into his 20's, they would travel into the city every year. Perhaps that was what his purpose was for being out. His mother was gone, and for the past few years he had avoided being downtown during the holidays, but it was as if an invisible force were pushing him- a secret and subconscious longing to remember what it was like to feel happy and content.

Like a single fish lost in a massive school, he streamed upward and out into the street of horns honking and brightly lit windows. The snow under his feet had turned to a muddy slush from being treaded on by the feet of hundreds, but on the edges of the sidewalk where it was piled up it was still pristine white. All around him, the general feel of the city had changed from solitary directness to something more inclusive and unitary. People smiled and were more courteous to others. It was a surreal experience and he wondered just how a holiday concept could change the entire psyche of so many people from every ethnic background- even those of different faiths who may not have celebrated the traditional holiday but still embraced the spirit of it. It was a magnificent sight, but he still couldn't help but feel that despite all of the charity and goodwill, none was meant for him.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked at a brisk pace until a window display of men's clothing caught his eye. It wasn't the clothing itself that got his attention, rather it was who he spotted just inside the store. In the warmly lit interior, Peter, Nathan, and Angela stood around a table of gaudy Christmas sweaters laughing and enjoying themselves. Peter chose a particularly hideous red knit monstrosity and held it up to Nathan's body while Angela rolled her eyes. Peter seemed to somehow find worth in the woven reindeer complete with a shiny gold bell for a nose and he shrugged his shoulders. In his mind it had potential, but that was quintessential Peter. Nathan, possessing both infinite patience and better taste, good naturedly modeled the sweater but gave a dissuading smile and by the movement of his lips, said something about a Christmas card picture while he shook his head. He chose a blue one with snow men on it for his brother, but decided against it and opted for a beige one that was made to make Peter look like a gingerbread man- complete with fuzzy white buttons down the front and a white zig zag pattern across the waist. Angela gave a hearty laugh and looked at her younger son adoringly. Sylar sighed and kept walking. How was it that Angela, perhaps the only other person more evil than himself, could still enjoy the company of her family while he was all alone? Where was the justice in that?

He dodged and weaved his way around slow moving tourists and weighed down shoppers with a slight sense of irritation. It seemed that everyone- even homeless beggars who gladly received handouts on the street- were destined to be happier than he could ever be. The sun had set and the wind picked up, making the experience even colder than it started out but he seemed to be the only one who noticed. He was miserable and he just wanted to get away from the crowd, but he didn't want to go home where he'd be the only living thing within the apartment's walls. He wanted to still feel the energy of others and be able to observe the tide of cheer- but from afar as he had become accustomed to since he started on the path that hurdled him toward a life of darkness and helpless longing. He very much felt like the Grinch watching the festivities of Whoville from his cave except he didn't even have a dog to keep him company.

On his way to the quietest part of the city, he stumbled on more people he knew. In front of FAO Swartz stood Matt, Mohinder, and Molly. They were basking in the warm glow of the lighted window that was filled with all manner of toys, but Molly seemed fascinated by one doll in particular. She pointed with glee at the lifelike girl and looked hopefully up at Mohinder. He gave her an affectionate smile and Matt gave her a light pat on the head as though she were his own flesh and blood. "We'll see." Sylar heard him say just above all the noise. She seemed disappointed, but took each man by the hand and led the way, skipping between her guardians as though she didn't really need the toy to make her happy so long as she had them. Sylar watched them disappear into the crowd and he wondered if she would later in her life have the same fond memories of window gazing as he did when he was a child. He knew better than to ask his mother for the beautiful, glittering things behind the glass because he knew she couldn't afford them, but still the fun lie in his imagination as he pressed his face against the window to fantasize about waking up to find the train set or latest gadget under the tree with his name on it.

He put his head down and went a little out if his way to get to Rockefeller Plaza. It wasn't his intention to go there and he wasn't planning on staying, but he was too close by to not make the stop. He couldn't help but feel a little sad at the sight of all the people slowly gliding in circles on the ice below the festive tree and the gilded gold angel with the trumpet. His mother always told him it was a special place because it had an angel, just like him. He remembered being a young boy sitting on a bench by the rink, his short legs swinging wildly with excitement as he sipped his hot chocolate, the steam making his glasses fog up. One of the last times he and his mother came, he asked her to go skate with him even though he had never tried it. She declined, saying it was somehow connected to the devil, but he suspected the real reason was the relatively expensive skate rental fee. He had still never tried ice skating and there was no real reason for him to start now. He doubted he would be very graceful on his first attempt and to do it alone without someone to hold onto would just be pathetic.

His eyes were drawn to a pair of skaters by the edge of the rink, one an obvious newbie while the other patiently encouraged him and offered support. He thought the pair looked familiar at a distance, but all doubt was resolved when the novice triumphantly yelled, "Yatta!" when he skated a few feet unassisted. Ando had skated before and was steady and graceful, while Hiro never got the chance because his father thought it was undignified. But today, the two friends had decided to throw caution to the wind and give it a shot. Hiro promptly fell on his butt and Ando was right there to help him up with a cheerful smile. Rather than be embarrassed, Hiro accepted with a grateful nod and tried several more times- each getting a few more feet than the last before being helped up. After several rounds of this, Hiro grew tired and his rear end was no doubt sore, so they exited the ice and changed into their street shoes. On the way out of the plaza, a homeless woman stopped them and asked for money so she could buy gloves to keep her hands warm. Hiro, either not having money or wisely refusing to give it away, took off his own gloves and bowed with a smile as he presented them to her. She gladly took them and in a moment to overexuberance, hugged her startled benefactor and in one swift movement, took his wallet from his coat pocket.

Under normal circumstances, Sylar would have found the petty theft amusing and blamed Hiro for being so gullible, but there was a certain measure of sincerity in his gesture that made the crime seem particularly distasteful. Against his better judgment, he silently followed the woman until he was only inches from her. The crowd worked to his advantage because she didn't think anything of being in such close proximity to total strangers. He paused at a crosswalk and gently coaxed the stolen wallet from her pocket with his telekinesis while she waited and turned to cross the street, leaving her none the wiser. He kept walking past the stores and into Central Park, the quiet heart of the city, and took a seat on a bench across from a pond. All around him, snow began to fall lightly, but the frigid temperatures weren't enough to discourage the ducks from congregating in the water and he watched them paddle around as though it were a warm spring day. He turned Hiro's wallet in his hands and admired the fine grain leather. He imagined the quirky nerd to carry a brightly colored nylon job complete with a Velcro strip to hold it together, but he apparently had higher standards than he gave him credit for. He opened the wallet and inspected the contents with curiosity. He didn't have any money in it, but he did have slips of paper with notes written in Japanese, a few receipts, and one picture. Sylar removed the photograph and studied it carefully. The lone figure was a Japanese woman, her dark hair swept up in a bun, her pale face stonily regal, yet friendly. She wore a flowered kimono and stood in front of a traditional botanical painting. On the back was more writing that he couldn't read, but he did understand the year: 1989. He made some estimations and quickly did the math to discover that the picture was taken when Hiro would have been 4-5 years old. Using his clairsentience, he confirmed what he suspected: the photograph was of his mother. The tattered picture was full of a sense of sadness, pride, and immense love. He didn't know Hiro that well nor what had become of his mother, but his own experience told him everything he needed to know. He knew very well the mix of feelings the picture held, because he felt the same about his own mother- flawed and imperfect as she was.

Down the path, a very familiar scream caught his attention. Noah smiled casually at Claire as he held her up. The path was covered in patches of ice and Claire had slipped and nearly fallen down, but HRG was there to catch her. It did come at a cost, however. Claire spilled her coffee all over her father for his efforts, and although he frowned, ultimately he was glad that she wasn't hurt and he put his arm around her while she blushed with embarrassment and shame. "It was old." He reassured her. "I probably need a new one anyway." He wasn't going to let a minor setback like ruined clothing spoil the quiet walk he had planned with his daughter. Sylar ducked his head down as they passed so they wouldn't recognize him, but he couldn't watch anymore anyway. He didn't have anyone to walk with in the park, so he sat on the cold bench all by himself holding a twice stolen wallet feeling like the loneliest man in the biggest city in the nation.

His solitude was shattered when an elderly black woman approached with a smile. "Good evening, young man." She greeted. "Mind sitting next to a tired old woman?"

Sylar glanced around at the otherwise empty park. There was another empty bench about 50 feet away, but maybe the woman couldn't walk that far- or maybe didn't want to risk falling down. "You can have it all to yourself." He replied as he stood up. "I was just…" he didn't know what to say because he wasn't doing anything, he had nowhere to be, and no one to talk to.

"Well now, don't let me run you off." She patted the empty space next to her. "I couldn't bite you if I wanted to. Ran out the house today without my false teeth." She giggled.

Sylar could clearly see that she had a perfectly good set of teeth in her mouth, but she didn't seem particularly dangerous or crazy. Maybe he could just placate an old woman for a few minutes by quietly sitting next to her. What harm could it do? He noted her unusually light coat and he guessed, "Come here to visit?"

She seemed to catch on to his observation and nodded. "I'm here to see my grandson and his family. He works on Wall Street and insisted I come up from Louisiana to see him. Don't fault him because he's a banker- he really is a sweet boy. Doesn't mean I like what he does with other people's money, though." She grumbled. "But I didn't always live in Louisiana. When I was a girl I lived here." She looked around the park with a bygone sense of pride. "Born and raised in the Bronx, so my comin' here's a little like coming home." She looked him up and down with a sly smile. "You look like you're a native too- a good Italian Brooklyn boy if I were to guess."

Sylar chuckled as he rubbed his hands together in front of him. "Queens, actually."

"Alright, then." She nodded. "Why is a good lookin' boy like you out here all by yourself? Not carrying shopping bags for your girlfriend or your momma?"

Sylar's smile slowly faded and he cleared his throat. "My mother's dead."

"Oh," She said sadly, "It's tough getting' through life without your momma. Losing mine almost killed me. We didn't have much growing up, none of this you see around here with cars full of presents and people throwing down money like it's going out of style, but that didn't matter. Our momma always made it special. I still remember we had an old piano somebody threw out and my daddy would play and my momma would sing Christmas songs. She had the most beautiful voice- like an angel. I cried when she went on, but it was her time and I had to be thankful for the times we had together." Sylar knew the old lady was trying to console him, but she couldn't have known that he was the cause of his mother's death. He could never accept it the way she was able to. "Yes sir, life can be hard, but either you lay down and die or you stand up and fight. Even though your momma's gone, there's got to be a soul out there that loves you. God wouldn't put you on this earth to walk it all alone."

"I think he did." He said somberly. He honestly couldn't think of one person who would help him up if he got run over by a city bus in the street.

"Well, then you haven't found them yet. But you just need to believe that you'll find them someday, someway. In the meantime, maybe you can find yourself some happiness by doing for others. As bad as you think you have it, son, there are many more who have it worse."

He shook his head and deadpanned, "That's not really my thing." He just couldn't imagine himself in a soup kitchen- not because he was too good or couldn't cook, nobody would want to get in his line if they knew what kind of a person he was.

"Nobody has to know about it." She pressed. "Do a few nice things quietly and mark my words- you'll feel better just knowing you did even if they don't." She gave him a stern nod and slowly got to her feet. "Better be getting back before they send a search party for a senile old woman who wandered off talking to strangers in the park after dark. Try to have yourself a happy holiday, young man."

Sylar waved goodbye to the old woman and watched her go just in case she did fall. He thought about what he could do just to test her theory. Maybe he could remain in the shadows and yet brighten someone else's day. It all seemed so simple and all throughout the day he'd been provided with clues. He got up and headed back for the shops to gather his bounty and had them wrapped and shipped from the store so he wouldn't even leave his fingerprints for seriously curious recipients to find. He wouldn't see the look on Peter's face when he opened his gingerbread sweater, or Molly's when she mysteriously got the doll she wanted, or Hiro when his wallet- with his mother's picture- was returned, or Noah when he tried on his new wool coat. He wouldn't see any of it, but he could imagine, the way he used to when he watched all of the fabulous toys dance behind the store windows, that each would be happy and that in turn made his usually bleak holiday a little brighter.


End file.
